Is A Wet Bride Lucky?
by KnightFury
Summary: A direct continuation from "Doing Right", as this website decided that the story was complete and would not change its mind.
1. Chapter 1

Beth does not appear to have arrived at the church yet. I look about me anxiously, but see no sign of her.

Watson rests a hand upon my shoulder. "She is most likely preparing to walk down the aisle, old man," he whispers. "We should take our positions at the front of the church, as rehearsed. Are you ready?"

No. My nerves are making me feel unwell and I can barely breathe.

Watson takes my hand, squeezing gently. "All will be well," he assures me.

But what if Beth has come to her senses and ran away with somebody else? Surely, Watson had never had reason to fear such things!

After what feels like an age of nerves and uncertainty, the music begins and we both turn to see Beth and her bridesmaids walking down the aisle. It is -- naturally -- her uncle that is giving her away. His arm is linked with hers and he looks very proud indeed.

I barely notice the entourage, for I only have eyes for my Beth. She is more beautiful than I have ever seen her! Her long white dress flows about her like liquid silk, the fall is so perfect on her. I am unable to clearly see her face, as she is veiled, but I know that the flowers in her bouquet match her eyes perfectly.

Everything from this point on is a blur, but I believe that nothing goes wrong. Watson has Beth's ring and someone obviously has been holding onto mine, for Beth slips it onto my finger at the appropriate moment. At last, I am given permission to kiss my wife and we then walk swiftly back up the aisle, holding hands.

"You might not want to go outside," Mr. Brett tells us, as we are indeed approaching the door of the church. "Not yet, anyway."

"Why the deuce not?" I demand to know.

He adverts his gaze. "I... uh... I needed a bit of air -- it was getting hard to breathe in there -- so I thought I'd get a bit of air..."

And a highly illegal smoke, no doubt. "Well...?"

He clears his throat. "I noticed a news van setting up. I don't know how they got wind of this, but... I didn't think you'd want to blunder into them -- not today, of all days."

"Zedding great," Beth mutters. "First rain and now zed-head reporters!"

I pat her hand.

"Oh!" Brett grins. "I wonder if it's still raining. Ha ha! Yes! It is! Great!"

"Got a plan?" Beth asks.

He nods, still grinning widely. "With the rain falling, they'll find it very hard to tell the difference between me and Holmes -- especially seeing as nobody knows that David and I are here. What if I go out and wander about, under an umbrella, as if I'm trying to work out whether or not the rain is going to go off soon enough to have pictures taken in the churchyard? Meanwhile, you can have some pictures taken inside and then get out of here."

"Good idea," I mutter, "but how are you going to join us without leading them back to us?"

"Well, I'll pretend that I've only just noticed them and then go and tell them to bugger off."

I gape at him. "You most certainly will not! I will not have that as a headline, thank you very much."

He throws his head back laughing. "I didn't mean that I was literally going to say that to them. I'll go up to them and say something like: 'Hello there... How long have you been filming? I think you've got enough now, don't you? This is supposed to be private, after all.' And if they refuse to leave, maybe John can threaten to break a few cameras..."

John would be helpful, actually. I go and locate him, telling him that Jeremy has need of his assistance.

Beth goes to the door and watches Jeremy for a few minutes. We then go back inside the church and have a few pictures taken, while we wait for him. I have already decided not to leave without him, if he and John are going to see the press off.

John is only too happy to assist Mr. Brett and goes out to him at once, assuring me that the news men will soon be gone. I do not doubt it!

"I guess the rain was good for something," my dear wife muses. "I still wish the zedding sun would come out, though. Is it too much to ask?"

"We have an entire lifetime to spend together," I remind her. "Plenty of time to enjoy the sunshine."

She laughs. "I guess so, Sherlock. I just... I would've liked to have got some pictures of us all in the sun. Y'know?"

Mycroft approaches us. "Congratulations," says he. "Beth, I am very honoured to call you my sister-in-law; I know only too well that no other woman could have so won Sherlock's heart."

What heart? "Thank you, Mycroft. I take it that you have located the supply of Communion wine?"

He snorts. "A word of advice, Beth: never embarrass Sherlock."

She smirks.

"We must forgive Mycroft," I tell her. "I believe this is the first wedding which he has decided to attend."

Mycroft gives me a dirty look and goes to chat with Watson.

"That was mean," my wife admonishes. "He was giving me a compliment. Don't give me that look, I know; you felt like it was a back-handed compliment. Maybe it was, but I don't think he meant it that way. C'mon Sherlock, we both know you miss him like crazy."

Perhaps I do, but that does not mean that I shall allow him to insult my wife.

"Mycroft would like to watch the children grow up," I whisper. "How are we to arrange that? To Victorian London one year at Christmas as guests and then to be hosts the following year?"

She shakes her head. "We can't do it," she tells me. "Remember how often and easily you and Watson got sick, the first six months or so you were back from death? You were immune to the wrong bugs. Little kids aren't even immune to all the stuff from their own time; a trip to a different one -- especially one like the Victorian era -- would be really dangerous. Bringing visitors here would be even more stupid. We're taking enough risks now, with so many people from so many different times at our wedding."

"John has thought of that and given them each a full health check with Watson. Does it still bother you?"

"I just... it's the kids I'm worried about. You get it, right?"

Yes, I do understand. All the same, I feel rather sorry for Mycroft and Beth's ancestors.

"Maybe we should get rid of the time machine," says she. "I think having the thing puts unfair pressures on you."

I have never heard such utter piffling nonsense! "It does nothing of the sort!"

"Oh no? So, how come you feel so guilty about my ancestor, huh? I know you, Sherlock and I've seen your face when you look at him. You're upsetting yourself over something. Will you talk about it, when we're away together? Honeymoons are meant to be about strengthening the relationship, after all."

Really? I thought honeymoons were so called because the newlyweds drank copious amounts of mead... Perhaps times have changed in that regard.

"Will you talk to me?" she repeats.

I nod and then give a sweeping bow. "For you, my dear lady, I shall do anything."

She thumps my arm, but it does not hurt. "Stop zedding about! I was being serious."

As was I and I say so. "My main objective, for quite some years now, has been to make you happy."

"Yeah, well, you can make me happiest by being honest with me -- no secrets, no lies. Got that?"

I nod solemnly.

"I know you well enough to know when something's up, anyway -- you'll only make me mad if you try to hide it," says she smugly.

This is in fact true enough.

"Supposing... I am hiding something, but it is pleasant and intended as a surprise for you?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Well, Sherlock, that's different. I'm talking about when you've got something on your mind and shut me out. I'm not going through that with you, OK?"

"You have made your point perfectly clear."

"Have I? Good! I've been trying to get it through to you since the day we met, so it'll be a zedding relief if you finally get it now. Hi, Jeremy! That was quick! All sorted?"

Jeremy nods and runs his hand through his damp hair. "The news men decided to go, once John backed me up. They weren't happy about it, though. Oh! And the rain's finally gone off. The only drops falling are off the trees, now."

"Great!" Beth leaps in the air. "Could you let the photographer know?"

The ground is still very wet, but I see that there are members of the church at work with brooms, sweeping the worst of it away, when I step outside. We shall soon be able to get the photographs which Beth wanted and hopefully without her beautiful dress being forced to pay for it.


	2. Chapter 2

I am glad that I have let Beth select our wedding photographer. He leaves nobody out -- he even takes pictures of us surrounded only by our friends, to ensure that they are not lost in the crowds of faces. Truly, there are more guests here than I would have imagined -- even Grayson and his family have decided to attend!

There is a detail which has not escaped my attention: alongside every digital photograph which he takes, he sets an old, late-Victorian camera to take a similar one. I believe I know why Beth chose this particular photographer and I am very glad.

When the photographs have finally all been taken, we begin to climb into the various waiting cars and make our way to the venue at which we are to eat together.

"Uncle Sherlock!" Freddie Winters runs up to me excitedly.

"Freddie! How are you? That dress suits you very well indeed."

I am not just saying that to be polite, either. Her strawberry blonde hair is set aflame by the deep purple of the dress, which is a blend of traditional and modern styles. Everything about it compliments the girl, whom I realise is not going to be a child for very much longer -- she must be soon to enter her teens!

She grins at me. "Beth picked really nice dresses for us all. Even Deirdre likes hers."

"Good," says my wife. "That was the plan. I didn't want grumpy bridesmaids, did I?"

Freddie chuckles. "No, of course not."

"Thanks again for being such a great bridesmaid," Beth says. "You helped make the day perfect, kiddo."

With that, she gives the girl a quick hug. This is the Yarder that never even knew how to talk to a young person, when I met her.

"Thanks for giving me the necklace," Freddie says, as they part.

"I'm glad you like it. Keep it safe, OK? It's for special occasions only."

She nods in agreement and then casts her eyes downward. "Are you moving right out o' London?"

"I don't know, Freddie. Sherlock's told me to pack up all my stuff, but as far as I know, we aren't ready to move anywhere yet."

I give Freddie a wink.

"My dear, we shall be nowhere so far out of the way that your parents cannot drive there or you cannot call us. I promise you that."

"So we're staying on Earth, then," says Beth. "Have we even got a house to move into, that's what I want to know."

I chuckle. "Well, we might have to borrow a caravan for a year or so, but I shall find us somewhere."

"You'd better be kidding, Sherlock," Beth warns me severely.

"A boat, then?" I continue, my tone as serious as before. "I should like to live in a boat. A pretty narrow boat, perhaps."

"Sherlock, this ain't funny! Do I look like the travelling kind, to you?"

Freddie giggles. "I better go. I told Mum 'n' Dad I'd only be a minute. See you at the party, I guess."

"Yep! See ya there!" Beth grins at her.

The moment we are strapped into our seats, my new wife thumps my arm. "I hope to zed you're joking, Sherlock."

"About what?" I ask of her, all innocence, as I absently rub at my arm.

"Having to hire a zedding caravan or... worse! Do I look like that kind o' person, to you?"

I shrug my shoulders. "A camper van, then? I have heard that they are quite luxurious."

"Sherlock! Tell me straight -- we do have somewhere to live, right? I know planning for the wedding took a lot o' time for both of us, but you wouldn't just forget something like that. Right?"

"Fear not, Mrs. Holmes, I shall work something out," I respond airily. "We have a week before we need worry about it."

"Sherlock! I am not gonna spend our zedding honeymoon trying to find a place to move into!"

I chuckle. "Then it is as well that I have a little place purchased, all ready for our return, is it not? There is no point in asking anyone anything about it, however; they are not even going to know the address until I email it to them."

This is not true, but I want this to be a pleasant surprise. Truly, I am glad that we have both been kept so very busy, or else Beth might have done some house hunting of her own.

She glares at me and then dissolves into laughter. "You had me going there, for a minute."

I chuckle. "Yes, well... I knew that finding somewhere suitable for a family was going to have to be a priority. I only hope that you like it."

"Why d'you say that? What is it, a fixer-upper?"

"Wait and see. The builders should have almost finished, by the end of our honeymoon."

She buries her face in her hands and then leans forward, so that her forehead is resting against the steering wheel. "I hope to zed you're joking! Zed! I don't wanna have to live in a caravan on a building site!"

"Well, I suppose you could remain in your apartment until we are able to move in," I suggest.

She turns to glare at me. "I told the landlord I'm moving out. If the house ain't ready, I've got nowhere to go."

"Oh."

"Zed, Sherlock! Why do you do these things?"

I pat her hand. "Fear not, dear lady. All will be well. You do trust me?"

"I trust you, yeah. Contractors are a different story. Cowboys, the lot of 'em! They just rip you off and take their time and..."

"In that case, it is fortunate that I know the contractors personally," I pat her hand again. "You must not fear, Beth. All will be well. Shall we go?"

She mutters something about wishing that she had taken time off of work on the lead up to our wedding and then starts the car with an aggression which I have not seen in her in quite some time. Perhaps I should have let her have her surprise now.


	3. Chapter 3

I have never been fond of parties. Usually, I would slip away at the first opportunity, but I can hardly do that today.

The meal has been a success, the speeches and toasts were as embarrassing as anticipated, the cutting of the cake distinctly memorable. I had not expected Beth to mash the first slice into my face and I suspect that she is cross with me over something that I have either said, done or else failed to do.

Watson approaches me when the music begins and the lights and... things... come on around the dance floor.

"You and Beth are expected to have the first dance, old man," he reminds me, laying his hand upon my shoulder.

I nod, easily locate my bride (seeing as she is still in her dress of white), and lead her onto the dance floor. This is not my idea of fun -- I should much prefer to dance with her away from prying eyes -- but she appears to be enjoying herself.

"Thanks for taking me to the Victorian era," she whispers into my ear as we dance. "If I hadn't already wore a dress like this, I wouldn't 've known how to pee without taking this one off."

"You say the most romantic things, my dear," I retort.

She shrugs. "You realise that we're gonna have little kids living with us soon, right? Forget talking about this stuff, we'll probably have to deal with stuff like it. Often."

That is the one thing which far from appeals to me, but I shall at least have assistance.

"You won't get mad at 'em, will ya?" she asks, suddenly sounding worried.

I stop moving and look down into her face. "My dear, do you doubt me? Today, of all days?"

She shakes her head. "You're a great guy, Sherlock. Kind, tender... But... I know what you aren't so good with and..."

I hold her close to me and resume our dance. "We shall talk later," I promise. "It is too public, here."

I feel her nod at my shoulder in reply.

The dance floor is gradually becoming the more crowded. Scott Winters is dancing with his wife, Debbie, while their children invent a dance all of their own with other children -- younger cousins, judging by the family resemblance.

I perceive that Deirdre is dancing with a young inspector, fresh from the academy, with whom I have not yet become properly acquainted. What is the fellow's name? Hodges or something, I believe. They look rather closer than mere friends. I think I rather should meet this young man, directly upon my return from our honeymoon.

Tennyson is chatting merrily with Amanda Wheelwright, I notice. As she laughs at his joke, I see a glint of something in the light from the dance floor. She would appear to be wearing an engagement ring. Should I congratulate them, or wait until they make an announcement?

"Tennyson would appear to have become engaged," I inform my new wife. "Does that seem too young?"

Beth laughs. "He was... what... twelve when he started working for you as an Irregular, right?"

"I believe he was," I reply carefully.

"How many years ago was that?"

I shrug. "I do see what you mean..."

She laughs. "Sherlock, kids grow up. Haven't you noticed?"

How can I explain? I want to protect Watson! It should come as no surprise that I would also feel compelled to protect those so much younger than myself.

"What happens when our kids decide they wanna move out or get married? Are you gonna insist they wait until they're thirty, or something?"

What is the legal age for a child to move into his own house, these days? I believe that it is sixteen.

"I am not going to keep them at home against their will," I retort.

She huffs a laugh. "Good. I hope not!"

All the same, I cannot help but hope that they shall never desire to leave home. What reason would they have to do so? I intend for the house to be perfect for them -- always! Is that wrong?

"Sherlock... you realise Freddie's fourteen now, don't you?" Beth enquires of me. "You keep saying she's too young to be an Irregular, but she's actually older than Deirdre was."

Really? "I thought that she was ten or eleven! Are you quite sure?"

"Zed! She was born in 2101, Sherlock. It's 2113, now. Do the zedding math!"

I grimace. "That would make her brother..."

"Zedding sixteen!" She laughs. "Yeah, exactly! Tell me, how old did you think Tennyson, Deirdre and Wiggins are?"

"Twenty... ish."

"It's been ten years since you met 'em, Sherlock. It ain't that difficult to work it out! Deirdre and Tennyson are twenty-two, Wiggins is twenty-three. They ain't kids any more and you were never their dad. You can't tell 'em how to live their lives, OK?"

I shrug. "Deirdre and Wiggins never knew their fathers and Tennyson has not heard from his in more than ten years. I may not be their legitimate father, but I am able to advise and support them. As always."

She snorts. "You can't advise 'em if you don't even notice 'em growing up, y'know."

No, I suppose not. "Well... you shall have to remind me, now and again."

"Yeah, I guess. By the way, I wouldn't worry too much about Deirdre and Hawkins..."

Hawkins! Yes, that is the fellow's name!

"...They're just friends. OK?"

"Hum! I believe all young people say that."

"Yeah, well... some young people do know their minds and mean it. Leave off, OK? I'll be Deirdre's confidant, for now, when it comes to crushes and... guys and... stuff... she needs a mom, not a dad."

"Well... if you say so."

"Yeah, I say so. To be honest, Sherlock, I think we need to talk about a few things, before you start giving your Irregulars any advice about relationships, OK?"

My heart drops into my boots and I have to wet my lips before I am able to speak a word. "Have I done something wrong?"

"Huh? Oh, no, it isn't that. Zed! I'm not mad or... no, it isn't that at all! Zed, I shoulda realised you'd see it that way. No, you just need... modernising... a little, maybe."

What can she possibly mean?

"Had enough?" she asks, changing the subject.

"More than enough!" I declare. "When I dance, I prefer to do so away from prying eyes."

She laughs. "OK, let's go get a drink 'n' sit down, yeah?"

That sounds good.

"How exactly do you plan to modernise me?" I enquire, when we are sitting together, sipping at non alcoholic cocktails and watching the dancers moving in... often strange ways... under the lights.

She almost chokes at my words. "Not here, that's for zedding sure! We'll talk about it later, OK?"

Very well. I take her hand and squeeze it. "I do love you, Beth."

"Well, I should zedding hope so, otherwise this is all pretty pointless," says she. "What brought that on?"

I shrug. It seemed an appropriate thing for me to say -- and it is the truth, of course. "I fear I do not say as much frequently enough. I am endeavouring to set that to rights."

She squeezes my hand in return. "I love you, too. It just scares me a little, when you say it like that. It sounds kinda like: 'I do love you and I need ya to remember that, 'cause you're gonna be mad at me about something in a minute'."

"Yes, well... you often are irritated with me about something or other."

"Then why d'you go ahead and annoy me?"

I shrug. "Sometimes, it is because I do not realise what I am about to do will irk you. Sometimes, I... do not think before I act. Sometimes... I... want to annoy... a bit. Only a bit, mark you."

She laughs. "At least you admit it."

"Not always," I hasten to remind her. "Most of the time, it is unintentional. It simply depends upon my mood at the time."

She can make of that what she will, but it is the truth.

Jeremy Brett takes a seat beside me. "I think I've done enough dancing," he declares. "Beth, your cousins are lovely, but they're... persistent. They wear me out! Dancing, questions... questions while dancing..."

I recall that he has a heart condition and am at once all concern. "Are you all right?"

He nods with a bright smile. "Always! Just tired. I don't dance as much as I used to and I prefer a gentle waltz to... what-ever it is you call that."

"That's a modern dance step," Beth informs him, following his gaze to the dance floor. "I think they call it the 22nd Century Bop. I'm not really into the modern dances either."

"It's all arms and legs without any coordination or rhythm," Brett complains. "How can anyone even choreograph something like that?"

"I think the whole point is that you don't," says she. "Basically, the idea is that anyone can dance and not get judged, I guess."

"But anyone can dance!" he explodes. "It's all a matter of time, patience, practice..."

"Being able to find a good tutor and the money to pay the guy," Beth adds. "Not everyone can afford a couple o' hundred credits a lesson, Jeremy, that's the whole point. Dances like this are a kind o' 'zed the system' thing."

He shrugs. "I see... I'd hoped the future would be... brighter... fairer. But it's just the same, isn't it?"

My wife shrugs. "Well, Sherlock and I 're bringing down the rich bad guys one by one 'n' two by two. Maybe we can make the world a better place?"

"I'm sure of it," he agrees, smiling. "I'm sorry, I'm just... tired."

"World weary, by the sound of you," I note. "Are things so very bad?"

"No. I enjoy my work, I've got a wonderful wife... I think I'll ring her, when I get home, and arrange to see her. I don't see her enough -- seeing you and Beth and the Watsons... reminds me that I miss Joanie. A lot."

I nod with a pang.

"It'll be OK," he assures me with a grin. "I'm going to get her to move to London, with me. I've found the perfect place for us!"

"Would you care to show it to me, one day?" I ask of him, trying not to recall to mind the things that I know.

If only time could be rewritten! I could change -- nay, save! -- two lives in one go, in the case of Jeremy and his wife.

He nods, his grin broadening. "Of course! If you'd really like."

"I would, very much," I assure him with a smile.

I hope that I can bring myself to do so. And if I cannot, I hope that he forgets all about it and never ever mentions it.


	4. Chapter 4

Mr. Brett's head begins to nod, as we watch the antics of the dancers together. I locate his long, woollen coat and drape it over him. I hope that he is all right! Should I locate Trevor and suggest that he take his guests home?

Beth assists me in stretching our friend across the unused seats beside him when sleep overtakes him entirely.

"He's OK," she assures me, before I speak a word. "Just tired."

I relax at her words. Thank goodness for that!

Scott and Debbie Winters come to talk with us next. They have had a wonderful time, but Paul and Freddie are becoming weary.

"You wouldn't mind if we leave now, would you?" Debbie asks.

"Not in the least!" I assure them. "Your children must come first. By the way... if they are still interested - and providing you have no objections - I should like for them both to become Irregulars. You need not give me an answer now; talk it over and see what you think."

Scott beams at me. "I know it'll mean a lot to them. Freddie's been telling me for quite some time, now, that she wants to be an Irregular."

I lower my eyes. "Yes, I know. I have failed to notice her growing up."

He laughs. "Yeah, I'm like that sometimes, too. I think it's just that we both want to protect them, but... part o' growing up is taking risks and learning from our own mistakes."

"That is sad but true," I agree. I then rouse myself. "Well, well, I should keep you no longer. Your children are weary and must go home to their beds..." at the thought of bed, I am forced to conceal a yawn, myself.

"I'll go and get them," Debbie volunteers. "I'm sure they'll come quietly enough, if I tell them they won't get a chance to say bye to you both if they don't come now."

Her prediction is correct. Both young things are ready to go without protest and come to see us on their way out.

Beth and I each embrace the children in turn and then it is the turn of their parents.

"Thanks for coming," says Beth. "I'll call you when we get back from our honeymoon."

"Have a lovely time," Debbie says. "Take care of each other."

Scott winks at me and grins. "Debs! This is Sherlock Holmes we're talking to - o' course he'll take good care o' Beth. And Beth's no different! You used to be her partner - you know that, already!"

I feel my smile broaden of its own accord and then I am forced to be impolite and give vent to a sudden and tremendous yawn. I am bone weary!

Grayson and his family are the next to leave. I shake him by the hand whilst he gives us both empty congratulations. Clearly, he is unhappy about our taking a fairly long honeymoon and then immediately reducing our hours. Well, too bad!

David Burke approaches us next with Beth's ancestor. It would appear that they have become firm friends, for they have their arms linked and are smiling broadly.

"I didn't realise Jeremy was with you," Burke says, somewhat apologetically.

"He has been asleep for almost an hour," I reply, trying my best not to yawn again. "I suppose it has been a long day, however... ex... oh! Excuse me."

Burke pats my arm. "That's all right."

I would say that I shall sleep well, tonight, but I have been an imbecile and booked a stay in Paris. I very much doubt that I shall sleep until we have checked into our five star hotel and scrambled between the sheets. I yawn again.

"Dear me, Mr. Holmes," says Lestrade. "Are you weary or bored?"

I bristle slightly at the words. "Well, I am certainly not bored," I snap.

He chuckles quietly. "Just as well, because I haven't got any cases for you. This has been a welcome holiday. I've enjoyed it. Only 'holidays' I tend to get is sick leave, back at home. Even then..."

I nod. "Yes, I recall. But it is - was? - much the same with Watson, back then. Well... and also for me, if I am honest. Luckily for me, the work was always its own reward, so I was never so conscious of it. But I did often feel for you Yarders and Watson."

Burke raises his eyebrows. "I hadn't really thought about that, before. But, yes, I suppose you'd always be on call."

I nod. "I am very glad that the 22nd Century is so different, because I slowed down, rather, in my retirement and have become quite unused to the concept of full-time employment. Yes, Mr. Lestrade, you might well smile, but even I could not go on as I did forever. Without Watson, I doubt that I could ever have kept it up for as long as I did, in all honesty."

"All mortals need time to rest and recuperate," notes David, casting a glance in the direction of his sleeping colleague.

"Quite so," I reply.

Trevor is the next to join us. He congratulates Beth and I for what must be the fifth time today and then suggests that he and David wake Jeremy and return to their hotel.

"I'm sorry I haven't really said more than a few words to you," he says to me. "But everyone wanted to talk to you and Beth, today."

"Well, come and visit us when we move into our new house," I invite him. "I shall call you. And then I shall take David and Jeremy home."

He smiles. "Yes, all right. You're away for two weeks, I think you said?"

"No, one. Grayson wanted us to take only a long weekend, but I... persuaded him."

Lestrade chuckles. "I'll bet you did!"

Beth rests her head upon my shoulder.

It has not escaped my attention that Trevor looks somewhat disappointed. I decide to ask him whether there is anything amiss.

He shrugs. "It's just... I'd got it into my head that I still had plenty of time to spend with my new friends, but they'll be going home at the end of next week."

"Trevor, they are your guests. I suggest that the three of you decide for how long they are able to stay and let me know what you decide."

He and Mr. Burke grin at me.

"Do you really mean that we can stay longer, if we want to?" Burke asks.

"Well, providing Trevor has no objections, yes," I reply. "You know that you shall not be missed, dash it all!"

They each take one of my hands to shake with enthusiasm.

Lestrade casts a glance towards the dance floor, where Watson is dancing with Teresa. I believe I know of what he is thinking.

"If you want to stay longer than agreed, there's plenty of room for you and your family in Norfolk," Trevor tells him, as if reading his mind. "Talk it over with your wife and let me know, OK? Here's my number."

I feel my wife squeeze my shoulder. "I can see why you like this guy," says she, quietly. "He's a lot like you - only, with a bigger place to live."

How little she knows! Oh, how I long to show her our new home now! I only hope that it is all finished.


	5. Chapter 5

After what seems an absolute age, Beth and I scramble inside our taxi and wave to those assembled who mean to see us off. I can see John the robot dabbing at his eyes beside my Watson and his wife, who looks more than ready for her bed.

Mr. Lestrade waves and gives me a thumbs up, which... seems completely wrong. I begin to wonder if my former self will notice a new familiarity in him when I realise that I shall be taking the dear chap home to die. A lump forms in my throat as the taxi pulls away and takes to the air.

"You OK?" Beth asks gently.

I nod with a tight smile, which only causes her to narrow her eyes at me.

"Think I was born yesterday? What is it, huh? Why won't you tell me? Why don't you wanna look me in the eye?"

I clear my throat with rather more violence than is necessary.

"That's not gonna work. I know you're not sick."

"I was not trying to convince you that I am," I retort. "But... this is not easy for me to put into words. I am trying, you see, to do the right thing. However..."

She raises an eyebrow. "You're not sure what the right thing is?"

I run my hand through my hair and turn my gaze to the window. "I am trying to be kind. But I am unsure that I have done right."

"OK. So... what're you talking about? You moan like zed, when Watson does this."

I squirm in my seat, suddenly wishing that I had paid a visit before climbing inside the taxi, but I suspect that my problem has more to do with nerves than anything else. It is a habit of mine to run away and hide, when I am upset in the company of those who know me too well.

"Sherlock, talk to me. What's on your mind?"

I squirm again. "Um... hum. Your ancestor. I have... selected... a particular moment from his... um... timeline. He is to die on the night of the day from which I have... extracted him. My intention was to give he and his family one last happy memory together, before... well... the end."

"That's a kind thought," says she. "There's nothing else you can do - I mean, you can't tell him, or warn him."

"I know," I reply, still refusing to meet her gaze. "But I feel... I was responsible, you see. It was my bloody case - my responsibility. Excuse me for the language."

She touches my arm. "Sherlock, it's an occupational hazard, OK? I know I can get hurt and I know I might not come home one day. He knows it too. His family knows it. You know it - you know you could die in the name of justice and you've come pretty close, more than once."

"Do you know how he died? What happened?" I ask, finally meeting her gaze.

She shakes her head. "I guess I thought he just got cocky. I mean, that was his way - like the Norwood Builder case..."

"This case - his last case - should have been straightforward. Simple. There was not supposed to be any violence. It was a simple matter of a pair of petty thieves who would break and enter into shops that had nobody living on the premises. Nothing could have been easier than taking them by surprise and arresting them and I had worked out where they would strike next."

She squeezes my arm. "Sounds like nothing could've gone wrong!"

I shake my head and lower my gaze. "The thing that I failed to realise is that they were deliberately being sloppy and leaving clues. Not blindingly obvious ones, but obvious enough for me to piece together. They were also working for an old enemy of mine - one with a grudge. I lead Lestrade to them and he took a bullet which was meant for me. Watson and I... we avenged him, if you like. Watson shot and killed the mastermind behind it and I saw that the two working for him were arrested. But Lestrade should not have lost his life. Not like that. It was a waste."

I am ashamed to realise that my face is wet. Beth is holding my hand.

"His family - my family - never blamed you. These things happen!"

"I should not have been so... so arrogant! In hindsight -"

"Huh, even a blind man has perfect zedding vision in hindsight!" Beth retorts. "What good is hindsight? Look, Sherlock, he walked into it willingly enough, OK? You can't blame yourself for missing something. You're human, just like everyone else. It's not your fault every zedding time it all goes to zed, OK?"

I pull my handkerchief from my pocket as I at last begin to calm myself.

"Seriously, you need to stop blaming yourself."

I shrug my shoulders. I feel a little calmer, but I can feel my fingers trembling very slightly. I rub my hands together so as to conceal my reaction.

She shrugs in turn. "Well, I don't know how I'm going to get it through to you."

I yawn and gaze out at the passing lights. We are approaching the coast. Ten more minutes? Fifteen? And we shall be crossing the English Channel.

"Where are we going?" Beth asks of me.

"To our honeymoon destination," I reply with another yawn.

She huffs and I see her reflection fold its arms in the window beside me. "Why d'you always have to talk in zedding riddles?"

"Because... well... spoilers," I reply, waving a hand. I am so weary! I can scarcely put two words together to form a sentence. Or... something. My brain is sluggish and I want desperately to sleep!

Beth touches my arm. "You OK?"

"Yes. Weary. Insufficient sleep. Too nervous - excited - and the thunderstorm..."

"Yeah, the storm woke me up, too. At least we're not flying in it, huh? Could've been worse."

Yes, that is true. Had the storm been raging now, we would have been unable to travel to France and I would have had to have found something else at short notice. Most likely not the Savoy or anything of its ilk.

We continue on in a silence which is broken only by my persistent yawns.

"Sherlock, why not rest your eyes for a minute, huh? Maybe you'll feel better."

I cannot usually sleep during a journey, but I am indeed worn out. My eyes slip closed without further encouragement.

The taxi halts and I awake with a start. Where are we?

"This is as far as I can go," the driver tells me, apologetically. "After the storm last night, the Channel is out of bounds, while search and rescue teams are at work."

He has got to be joking!

"Anyone making for the Continent will be reimbursed," he adds, as if that is supposed to make me feel better.

I groan and bury my head in my hands. "But what are we supposed to do? Where are we to stay? Tonight is supposed to be the first night of our honeymoon."

He shrugs. "Sorry. I guess you'll just have to do the same as everyone else. Look, there's a little hotel next to the monorail station; let's see if there's a room for two there, eh? Hopefully, you can carry on to Paris in the morning. I'll get your bags."

I must say that I am truly grateful to the driver for staying with us until we have a room. I thank and tip him, though it is difficult for me to smile, disappointed as I am. Confound the bloody storm! Confound those foolhardy enough to attempt to travel in it, too! Goodness knows, the English Channel is treacherous enough on a stormy day when one is on it, let alone flying over the choppy waters in a tiny car!

Eventually, we are deposited in a bare twin room with the beds pushed close together. I can hear the monorail through the draughty double-glazed windows and see the searching lights of the rescue parties at work in the Channel. This is not the romantic setting I had planned.

Beth wraps her arms about me and kisses my cheek. "Alone with you at last," she whispers. "I love you."

I feel some of my tension melt away at the words.

"Beth, I am truly sorry. I should have checked..."

She huffs a laugh. "You're the one that wants everything to be perfect, Sherlock. Perfect proposal, perfect wedding... perfect zedding husband... Life isn't like that, OK? We're here. We're safe. I've got you to keep me warm. I'm happy. Are you happy?"

Not really, but I do feel better. "As long as you are."

She pulls away just enough to grin at me. "This is like a place from one o' Watson's journals."

"Precisely. They were no place for a young lady then."

She laughs. A merry sound, to my ears. "This is an adventure. C'mon, let's get ready for bed. I think... yeah, this is an en suite bathroom; at least we don't have to queue in the hall, huh?"

I wish I could share her optimism. I turn my back and begin to undress.

"What're you doing?" Beth asks. "We're married, now; no need to be modest."

"Watson is a man and a doctor, yet we still change in the same room - when necessity forces our hands - with our backs to one another," I respond over my shoulder. "This is how I am, Mrs. Holmes; it is not a matter of trust."

I hear her mutter something about Victorians being weird but pay no heed. I am weary. I intend to change my clothes, make use of that en suite and then sleep for as long as possible.


	6. Chapter 6

I know not quite what Beth has in mind, but all that is on my mind is sleep. To say that I am weary would be quite an understatement - besides which, the room is freezing and the beds look both warm and inviting.

With many a chill shiver, I do my best to get the curtains to meet so as to keep out the draught from the windows. When I have them in the best position which can be managed, I then scramble beneath the sheets.

Beth immediately moves over into my bed, close to my side, and wraps her arms about me. She too is shivering and her hands are like ice!

"Wait there," I instruct her, (quite grudgingly) climbing back out of the bed. "We are both going to contract pneumonia, if we are unable to find a better means of keeping warm."

I silence a sneeze as I open the wardrobe. Ha! I thought as much! Extra bedding has been provided on the top shelf. It smells somewhat musty, but beggars cannot be choosers.

Once the rugs have been spread over the... two beds to make one, I suppose, I climb back in and stretch myself out alongside my new wife. Even in the near complete darkness, she is beautiful indeed.

She smiles and rests her head at my shoulder. "That's better. Thanks, Sherlock."

Her arms and body embrace me and I return the gesture with a yawn.

"G'night," she whispers softly.

"Good rest, my beautiful lady."

She huffs a laugh. "Really? You're gonna call me 'beautiful lady', of all things?"

"My beautiful Mrs. Holmes," I correct myself, wondering if I have just irritated her. "Good night, Mrs. Holmes."

"Good night, Mr. Holmes," she kisses my cheek. "I love you."

"And I you. Beth, I am truly sorry... had I known that it would have been like this, I would have taken you somewhere in London!"

"I know," says she. "You're a zedding perfectionist - wherever you wanted to take me, I know well enough that this wouldn't be it. It's OK, Sherlock. Hopefully, we'll be able to carry on our way tomorrow. Get some sleep, huh? I can tell you're really tired."

This said, she draws still closer to me with what sounds rather like a happy sigh.

Despite my immense fatigue, I lie awake for quite some time, playing with my wife's hair. Beth's breathing has long since become gentle and regular, telling me that she is sleeping beside me. However... my nose is cold, as are my feet. The darkness is occasionally split by the flash of a searchlight in at the window and the night is noisy indeed - sirens, engines, shouts... Ugh! Just let me sleep!

What is that? Oh... the wretched, wretched monorail! No doubt, one has just came roaring past. Confound it! It is probably still the middle of the night!

"You OK?"

I jump slightly and hear my wife snigger.

"What o'clock is it?" I enquire with a grumble, whilst reaching for the pocket telephone (which I had the good sense to set to 'Do Not Disturb' before setting it down) on my bedside table.

"Oh! It is nearly four o'clock in the morning. Wonderful!"

I almost slam the device back down when I notice that I have no less than five text messages, two e-mails and seven missed telephone calls. What the deuce is going on?

Most of the missed calls are from Trevor, but the most recent are from Watson. The same applies to the texts, I perceive.

The texts from Trevor are difficult for my sleep-starved brain to properly understand, for they are phrased somewhat oddly:

"R u k? Trips 2 Euro cancld?"

"Not heard from u. U k?"

"Pls txt bk. *ting 2 worry."

Oh, for goodness sake! Why? Why can he not write a proper message? Texting is not so very different from sending a telegram, dash it all, and I never saw anything like that, even from someone who was not English!

"What is it?" Beth asks.

I shrug and yawn into my hand. "Trevor is 'star'-ting two worry, apparently. He must have heard somewhere that we are currently unable to reach our destination. I shall respond in the morning, he sent his last message about two hours ago."

She touches my arm. "No, answer now," says she. "If he's really worried, he might be sitting up, waiting for an answer."

Really? "It is four o'clock in the morning!"

"Just send a quick message. And say you're trying to sleep, so he knows not to answer."

"Trevor, we are perfectly right," I respond to his coded messages. "Staying at an inn near the monorail at Dover. Not ideal, but better than a night spent trying to sleep in a car. Good night."

Watson's messages are much easier to understand. Indeed, his are still phrased precisely like a telegram:

"Trevor been trying to contact you STOP Becoming worried STOP Apparently not possible to travel to Europe STOP"

I chuckle to myself and write my response.

"Was sleeping. Beth and I well. Staying at an inn near the monorail at Dover. Will let you know when we reach Paris. Get some sleep, Watson."

Almost immediately, Watson responds:

"Thank God STOP"

I cannot help but laugh as I set aside the device and once again settle myself down for sleep. Beth is playing with my hair and humming quietly. It is nice.

When next I awake, the sun is streaming in through the windows and the cries of seagulls have replaced the shouting voices of men. I sit up with a groan and rub at my eyes and face.

"I just ordered room service," my wife informs me with a grin. "Orange juice, tea, toast with choices of jelly - jam, marmalade 'n' chocolate spread..."

My eyes light up at the mention of chocolate spread. I am becoming rather fond of chocolate.

"Was there anything else you'd like?"

"Chocolate cake?"

She laughs. "Sherlock, if we're gonna adopt two kids, you need to start setting an example. We do want them to eat good things, right?"

I grumble. "Very well. Cake is for elevensies, not for breakfast."

That does not mean that I shall not have it for breakfast when I am alone, however.


	7. Chapter 7

Breakfast is not really what I had had in mind, but it is not unsatisfying and I am hungry enough to appreciate it. All the same, my sleep-deprived brain is hurting me and there is a ringing sound in my ears. Were he here, John the Compudroid would no doubt be watching me closely. How glad I am that he is not.

I am pleased to discover, upon checking my pocket telephone, that I have received no further messages. Clearly, Watson and Trevor have both had some sleep.

"They were worried about us," my wife reminds me. "I think it's good that we've got friends who care. Don't you?"

"Well... yes, of course. But I do wish that they would not concern themselves so."

"Yeah, well... you like to be independent. Let's face it - nobody is. Not really. I'm pretty independent, but I realised a long time ago that I need you with me, if I'm really gonna be happy in life. It's just the way things are."

I shrug my shoulders. "Watson has already proved, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he can do jolly well without me."

She embraces me and rests her head at my shoulder. "That doesn't mean he doesn't care."

We shall see.

I wash and throw the suit which I was wearing last night back on. I would rather not unpack anything, just yet, for I hope that the lack of calling voices from outside means that we may resume our journey. If not... well... I know not what to do.

It is when I am preparing to go out that I realise a blunder which I have made: George Lestrade's daughter-in-law! She is expecting and I promised that I would return both her and her husband to the present early, but he failed to remind me and I have been rather too busy to remember. I shall have to set this right.

"Beth... supposing I take you back to London..."

"What?" she explodes. "Why? No, suppose we stick together, huh? There's no way we're cutting our honeymoon here, just because of a setback! No!"

"Beth, listen..."

"No!" she snarls, poking me in the chest. "No, you listen! I'm not going back to London 'n' back to work, OK? I want to spend some real time with you."

She looks as if she might cry, now that the initial anger is giving way to hurt.

"My dearest, dearest Beth, I am not proposing that we give up. I was going to suggest that I drop you off at one of the very finest restaurants I know. I have neglected to do something important, which really cannot wait until we return from our honeymoon."

She smirks at me. "If you mean dropping an expectant mother and her husband back in their own time, Watson already took care of it. He thought maybe you'd run out of time or just forget."

I gape at her. "Watson has never used my machine before!"

"Well, I have. I showed him how to work the thing and he said it went like a charm. Don't worry; he's kept your time stamps - you can still drop the others back to the right time and place."

I know not whether I am irked or impressed.

"Well... well, I suppose that he has done us a favour. However, I was also going to suggest that we use Machina Temoribus Peregrinandis to travel to our destination and thus spend the entire week there. What do you think?"

She pulls a face. "It's not that I don't love the idea, but how do we explain how we got there?"

I shrug my shoulders. "We shall say that we took the 'long way around', as they say. Come, we should check out and make our way back to London."

"No you don't! Let's talk this through, before you go off half-cocked. OK, so we're time travel to Paris to make up for lost time..."

"Yes! We could even go back to the very start of our honeymoon, so that no time has been wasted."

She looks thoughtful. "S' tempting, but you're forgetting something important. We'd still have to come back to the present, after. So... what do we're do then?"

Oh! I had indeed overlooked that problem.

She touches my arm. "Any messages from Paris?"

"Oh. Yes. They have advised us not to try to get to them and that they have compensated us by arranging for us to stay in a luxury space hotel. The Diamond Satellite."

"You're kidding! The Diamond Satellite? That's zedding expensive!"

"Hum. The journey - both ways - has also been paid for."

"Nice! So... when did they send that email?"

I check and grimace. "Yesterday. During the service, apparently. I did not see it arrive."

She shrugs. "The bad weather might've delayed it. Ah, well. Let's get back to London 'n' grab our zedding suits."

"Very well. I shall get the bags; go on down and check out, if you would be so good."

She is about to leave when she stops, her hand upon the door handle. "We could make up the time. You know... take the time machine to the Satellite, check in, stay there until the time we left and then get back to London and then take a rocket back up there. I mean... that'd work, right?"

"Well... yes, I suppose it would," I muse. "If we do it that way, there will be no time gaps."

She grins. "Let's do it, then. See you downstairs, Sherlock."


End file.
